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In an open field at dusk
to footfalls I awoke
marching ants across my temples
their feet had no intention
they followed some magnetic drum
prisoners of their destination

from the slats of the factory come
where once they did make rails
old Death's peculiar songs
he didn't know I was listening
so he crowed out nice and long
to the spiders and the lumber
and the dust of his conquest
and his hunger and his lust

I heard his feet rejoice
I heard him tap his cane
as if he had his own review
on stage at the F and M

I caught his words in my open mouth
I gagged and choked and spit them out
I heard him turn his heated ear
my tiny heart beat in his ear
I was already running
oh, I heard him coming

shrapnel spitting from his wheels
his sobbing arms raked for my heels
I dove and rolled and hid my face
and I said these magic words:

my dove is home
her breast is warm
my dove is home

and I said these magic words
and fell down, down the anthill for days

my dove is home
her breast is warm
my dove is home

my dove is home
her breast is warm
my dove is home